


Of Feds and Conmen

by DizzyDrea



Category: White Collar
Genre: Conversations, F/M, Family Secrets, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders idly if this happens to all agents who recruit CI's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Feds and Conmen

**Author's Note:**

> This was written ages ago, and sat on my hard drive for no reason I can figure out. I posted this on my LJ a couple of weeks back, as a birthday gift for my dear friend [elriarhodan](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/)'s birthday. Obviously, it was inspired by, and takes place directly after, the first season episode _Prisoner's Dilemma_.
> 
> Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin, Fox Television Studios, USA Networks, and a lot of other people who aren't me. I do this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

"So, how are things with Caffrey?"

Peter freezes, for just an instant. He knows it's a tell, and that Bancroft can see his reflection in the glass, but he can't help himself.

His mind automatically reels back to that day, just a about a year ago. Somehow, they'd managed to stumble their way through this awkward dance because Special Agent Peter Burke couldn't ask—he has too much power over Neal to begin with—and Neal Caffrey, legendary conman, wouldn't take a walk off a pier without knowing if there's a boat waiting to catch him, and Elizabeth Burke, his wife of ten years, knew better than to get into the middle, but she'd done it anyway because they needed— _needed_ —each other in a way so deep and real that it hurt.

But that's not what Bancroft is asking about right now, and yet it's the only thing Peter can think about. And the longer he waits to answer, the more of the truth he'll be able to read on Peter's face.

"Neal's doing well, I think," he says, just to fill the silence. "Deckard really had him twisted up, though. I've never seen him so glad to see the back side of a con before in my life."

He can't tell what Bancroft is thinking because the man's back is turned, but somehow he thinks this isn't over. His suspicion is proven correct when he turns around.

"Caffrey's good at what he does," Bancroft says, and it sounds like a non-sequitur because that's not what they were talking about, but it is, kind of what they were talking about.

Peter chuffs out a laugh. He can't help it. If anyone had told him four years ago when he'd first slapped the cuffs on the little conman that he'd be calling that same conman his partner, he'd have sent them straight to the loony bin. Yet, here he sits now, facing down his boss's boss, scrambling like mad to come up with something to say that'll keep Neal out of prison.

"He's a conman. He never does _anything_ without being expert at it first. It's part of his charm."

Bancroft's chuckle echoes his own. "I suppose you're right. Still." 

And here, Bancroft gives him a look. It's a look he knows well, because it's a look he's given Neal on too many occasions to count. He squirms uncomfortably as the moment stretches, and he's deathly afraid that in doing so, Bancroft can see right through him. And if he can, Peter knows just what he'll see.

Bancroft circles the desk, leaning against the front edge, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms as he continues to scrutinize Peter, sitting there in the guest chair beside him. Finally, after too many minutes to count, he lets out a breath, unfolds his arms and braces his palms against the edge of the desk on either side of his body.

"You know, back when I was you," he begins, and his eyes take on a faraway gleam, as though he's remembering a distant past shrouded in the fog of memory, "I had a CI; Don Blackstock. He was a second-story man, and good at it, too. I busted him a couple of times, but there was never enough to hold him, at least not for long."

Peter huffs an unsurprised chuckle. "Sounds familiar."

"Yeah," Bancroft says, flashing a smile. "He loved the chase. Loved the plotting and planning. For him, the challenge was in the game. It was a reward in itself. The loot was never really the objective. Getting caught was never part of the plan."

"It never is," Peter says, because it isn't. Never was part of Neal's plan, anyway.

Bancroft's expression turns sober as he glances down at his feet. "I told him that he could keep running if he wanted to, but that I'd always find him. I'd always catch him because that's what I do. I asked him to come to work for me—be my CI. I threw the standard bullshit at him: better hours, steady pay, nobody trying to shoot at him—well, at least nobody from the FBI, anyway."

They share a chuckle at that, because no matter how hard they try, they're still operating in a world where guns are a mandatory accessory, and people sometimes get shot just because they're in the line of fire.

"My wife asked me to bring him home," Bancroft says quietly. "I'd been chasing him so long, it was like he was an old friend of the family."

Peter's head pops up at this, and he can feel the shock stealing over his face, but he's helpless to stop it. Bancroft is looking at him, looking at him like he _knows_ , and damn it, he can't _know_. Except that he does, and probably not because of anything Peter's said or done, but just because it takes one to know one.

"So, he met my kids, and charmed my wife," Bancroft goes on, just as if there hadn't been a lightning strike right there in Hughes' office. "And he stopped running. It was good. It was better than good. We were happy. He consulted for the FBI, did some outside consulting, made a life for himself. It was good."

Peter could feel the _but_ coming. He knew it was there, and he wished he could just get up and walk out, not hear it, pretend it wasn't coming. But he couldn't. Because Bancroft _knew_ , and he was trying to help. And God help him, but that was all that Peter had ever tried to do.

"What happened?" he asks, and he could kick himself. He so doesn't want to know, but he'd asked because he was supposed to ask. And because Bancroft would say it anyway.

"I didn't see it coming," Bancroft says, and Peter can see the tears gather in his eyes, like it's a hurt that's still so fresh that it causes physical pain to remember, even if it was all a long time ago. "His blood was everywhere, and I couldn't stop it."

Bancroft lifts his hands, palms up, holds them out in front of him, and he's staring, like he can still see the blood. Peter's heart clenches painfully.

"He'd infiltrated a B&E gang that had been pulling jobs in Manhattan for months," he continues. "We needed to know who was pulling the strings. Don volunteered to go in. He'd done it before, so we didn't think twice. But that day—" he chokes off, and has to swallow once, twice before he can continue. "These guys were bastards. Don was usually careful, but that day he said something he shouldn't have, and they shot him."

Peter looks away, because he can't bear to see the pain on Bancroft's face. Because it's all just a bit too close for him. Because he can see Neal's face, Neal's blood, in Bancroft's words, and it's killing him.

The moments tick by, and the only sound in the office is the two men breathing raggedly, trying to pull themselves back under control. This pain slices deep, for both men, and Peter knows this is one of those _there-but-for-the-grace-of-god_ moments. Because Neal's fine. He's at home with El, and they're waiting for him, and they'll have dinner ready when he gets there. Neal wasn't shot, and Peter's heart isn't the one that's broken, but right at this moment he knows it could have been him. It could have been them.

"I haven't told that story since the day it happened," Bancroft says into the silence. "And I've never told anyone about Don and Olivia and me. About how close we became."

Peter nods, finally looking back at the man. "And that story will never leave this room. You have my word."

Bancroft nods, as if he'd known that already but was grateful for the words just the same. They look at each other for the space of a few heartbeats. 

"I know I don't have to spell it out for you," Bancroft says at length. "So let me just say this: No matter what he might be to you, you owe it to him to protect him. Make sure he knows that he's important not for what he knows, but for who he is. Don't try to change him, but help him try to become a better version of himself. But above all else, let him know that you'll always be there for him. Trust him, don't trust him, it doesn't really matter. What matters is that you've got his back."

Peter nods, not really able to say anything to that but knowing that Bancroft isn't expecting an answer. He sees the senior agent in a whole new light now, knows that they've just shared something that no one else ever has. He wonders idly if this happens to all agents who recruit CI's, then halts that line of thought in its tracks. He doesn't really want to know. It's enough to know that he's not the only one, that the cardinal sin he'd thought he was committing is really more venial. A couple of Hail Mary's and he'll be right as rain.

Bancroft stands, straightens his suit coat, and Peter does the same. "Now, I suspect there are people waiting for you at home." He holds out his hand, and Peter takes it. 

They look into each other's eyes, and Peter nods. "Thank you, sir."

Bancroft waves a hand as he retreats behind Hughes' desk. "Get out of here." Peter turns to go, but is stopped by Bancroft's voice. He turns around, expectant smile on his face. "If you ever need to talk, my door's always open."

"Thanks," Peter says, and he means it. There are days when it would be nice to talk to someone who understands what his life's really like. "I'll remember that. Goodnight."

Bancroft smiles and waves, and Peter retreats out of the office, pulling the door shut with a final, soft click. He pauses outside the door to rub his hands over his face. He feels like he's just been through the wringer, which isn't too far from the truth. The whole situation with Franklin and Deckard had been bad, from start to finish, but having Neal in the middle of it all was the worst part by far. He moves down the hall, ducking into his own office to grab his things and head for home. That conversation certainly wasn't what he'd expected when Bancroft had called him over, but he can't say he minds too much. 

They hadn't said anything incriminating, he knows. Bancroft was careful, probably a behavior learned over a lifetime of carrying this secret. Still, he understands what Bancroft left for him to read between the lines. 

A smile blooms on his face as he anticipates the moment he walks into the house, his wife and his—well, he might as well just go ahead and call a spade a spade at this point—best friend huddled together in the kitchen, the smell of pasta filling the air. Yeah, he could get used to that.

And tonight, tonight he'll make sure that Neal knows he isn't going back to prison. Not ever, no matter what he has to do to make sure that doesn't happen. He has to make sure Neal knows he's important. To Peter and to El. 

~Finis


End file.
